


crown her in flowers (over and over)

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Blue Hawke, F/F, Flower Crowns, Flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 23:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Apparently sneaking up to fling a flower crown at someone can be interpreted as ‘possible assassin, neutralize with extreme prejudice.’





	crown her in flowers (over and over)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Flower Crowns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010520) by [Mytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/pseuds/Mytha). 



> I love rarepairs and this was such a cute premise for a fic, I couldn't resist! There's some great dialogue I couldn't bear not to borrow from the original, so I added a little more feelsy navel-gazing and hope that compensates. :)

Hawke has known love before, little-girl crushes and plucked daisies and whispered giggles behind her palm, but this is a love so complete and part of her she feels— gooey, dissolved, _soluble_ , all bees and butterflies and liquid gold through her very core. The very honey of her heart fermented into ridiculous intoxication, spinning her blind-dizzy-drunk under the glittering light of the Crestwood.

Flowers seem like the classic, romantic sort of thing. She imagines roses and violets, orchids and marigolds, all the tame and domestic sorts of herbology. But here, pockets heavy with coin and not a florist in sight, Hawke plucks wood velvet and fawn’s slip, wild poppy and tiny white star-flowers, blooms beyond name and recognition, exhausting all of her puny flower-lore as she twists them into shape. She breaks the stalks with the ragged edge of her thumbnail and chains them stem-to-slit. They stain her fingers green with sap, sticky under the tang of old leather and new metal.

“What are you doing there, Waffles?”

Hawke jerks herself forward, huddled over the half-formed circle. She’ll make a shield of her sternum, build a trellis from her ribs, but oh— this is too new, too fresh for Varric’s scrutiny. “It’s a surprise! I’ll be done soon, I promise.” Promises aren’t so cheap as they once were, but she’ll spend them freely on her friends.

“Is that a flower crown?” Varric asks, amused.

“It will suit you perfectly, I’m sure,” she replies with a mock-haughty sniff.

“Oh no, I’ve learned from past mistakes. The last time Daisy roped me into that one I sneezed for days.” His smile widens, sickle-sharp and gleaming. “Tell you what, though. Ten gold says you can’t get one on the Seeker.”

There are two great truths to Hawke, under all the tales that have taken shelter beneath her legend:

The first is this: she will always raise shield to sword in defense of others.

This is the second: she cannot back down from a challenge.

“Oh, you’re _on._ ”

...

Of course, Hawke has ample time to regret this as she inches forward on her belly, knees scraping the rocks overlooking Cassandra’s tent. The spot behind her left knee itches terribly, there’s something crawling on the back of her neck, and her ears— her _ears_ , of all places!— are sticky with sweat, the sun beating down relentless and uncaring about the finer points of sportsmanship, betting, or love.

She tells herself it’ll make a grand story later, starts drafting it as she slides forward, crown plucked between thumb and forefinger. It’ll fit into one of her long and rambling letters to Merrill, and if it sounds suspiciously like poetry, well. Merrill won’t judge. Merrill would probably just tell her to grow flowers in her heart, that Cassandra sounds like a lovely lady, and that Merrill wishes them both the best. Maybe she’d enclose seed packets.

(Isabela would probably add a dirty picture and ask, “If she’s a Seeker, what’s she seeking?”)

Of course, all these thoughts skew sideways as Cassandra abruptly spins, grabbing Hawke’s arm in mid-toss and yanking her to the ground. The world whirls topsy-turvy, and Hawke’s staring at the sky with Cassandra’s knee very firmly buried in her chest.

“No! Seeker!” she begs. Wheezes. Gasps. Doesn’t even have to fake the whimper to make it more piteous.

“Champion! What is the meaning of—”

“I am _so_ sorry! I should not have… I was…” Gulps, as Cassandra’s knee eases off pressure and breath returns to her lungs. “Oh shit.” Hawke pushes herself up to her elbows, staring in dismay at the now-bedraggled crown of pink and white flowers on the ground behind the Seeker. Pink’s for admiration, or something like that, if her flower lore’s right, and white is for purity of intent, or… something. Most of what she remember’s fragmented to bits and pieces, tiny scraps of nothing. She suspects most of it was made up by nobles to show how ridiculously sophisticated they could afford to be. And she’s pretty sure half the definitions contradict one another.

But apparently sneaking up to fling a flower crown at someone could be interpreted as ‘possible assassin, neutralize with extreme prejudice.’

“What is this?” Cassandra asks, scowling. She picks up the fallen crown, a squashed blossom tumbling loose.

“I just wanted to—” Hawke pinches the bridge of her nose, tries breathing in. Out. She’s faced down ogres, dragons, ancient Tevinter magisters, but apparently none of those are as immediately terrifying and pants-wetting as a beautiful, angry woman. “I was making them, and Varric said—” Gulps again. “I am a fool, many apologies. I don’t even know why I let Varric talk me into this. You don’t deserve—”

“A flower crown?” Cassandra finished for her.

Hawke dares to peek up. That sounded suspiciously like _amusement_. And even— a _smile_! Yes, lips turned up, eyes crinkled, yes, a smile!

“I was making them, and I thought— maybe, I should have asked. Varric made you sound—”

“Scary?” Cassandra suggests, raising an eyebrow. “Intimidating? A humorless fanatic that stabs books? A hulking great beast of a woman?”

“...well, not in those words exactly.”

“I am sure some of those words were involved.”

Hawke pushes herself to her feet, accepting Cassandra’s hand as she wobbles upright. “Well, yes! But you’re _not_! You’re kind, and passionate,” and if Hawke keeps talking, then maybe, just maybe she’ll stumble-tongue her way out of this mess, “and I admire your convictions!” A deep breath, seized by a moment of madness. Or inspiration. Or possibly indigestion. “If anything, you’re like our dear friend Aveline, except even more strikingly beautiful!”

Cassandra’s gone wide-eyed, and Hawke feels her tongue grow suddenly melon-sized, is about ready to swallow her shame and resign herself to living as a hermit in the deepest swamp until she can live this down, but Cassandra whispers, “He compared me to… Aveline?” and the awe cannot be more clear.

Then the other shoe drops. “You think I am… strikingly beautiful?”

Hawke becomes keenly aware that Cassandra’s still holding her hand. Or maybe she’s holding Cassandra’s. Either way, she might just fall over if she lets go, so she clings for dear life. “Um. Yes?”

“And you… brought me a flower crown?”

“I did.” How can Cassandra’s eyes be so impossibly deep and dark and lovely, cutting as a blade? She struggles to hold her gaze as long as possible, but her eyes fall to the discarded ring of flowers. She crouches, reaching past Cassandra to retrieve the crown. Her body tingles this close to Cassandra, the faint smells of leather and sweat and roses mingling with the crushed-flower aroma of the new blooms.

Thankfully, the crown’s not as badly damaged as she feared. She rewinds the broken stalks into the bulk of the circle, returns stray blossoms to their places. A little shorter than it once was, perhaps, but still presentable.

Hawke’s heart surges with a sudden elation, a feeling of grand possibility. “May I?”

Cassandra inclines her head.

Hawke carefully places the crown on top of Cassandra’s braid, and— with Cassandra still holding still, magnificent and statuesque, Hawke dares to press her luck. “May I weave it to your braid?”

“Do it,” Cassandra breathes softly.

With trembling hands, Hawke threads the longer stalks into the twists of Cassandra’s braid, wildflowers mingling with roses. This close, Hawke is certain it must be some hair oil that Cassandra uses, heady and intoxicating. And oh, if this is the price it takes to be this close to the Seeker, Hawke will crown her in flowers over and over, would embroider roses into every stitch of Cassandra’s clothing and count her blessings in pricked fingers and bloody thumbs.

Cassandra’s eyes are dark and soft, lashes casting butterfly-shadows over the curve of her cheek. She brushes her thumb against Hawke’s jaw, and they are so close their breaths mingle, their shadows touch, just one heartbeat of space between them—

“Oh, just kiss already!” Varric shouts, poking his head out from behind the tent.

They spring apart, Hawke shouting, Cassandra’s hands in fists, and Varric flees the scene with remarkable speed considering the length of his legs.

Cassandra spins back to face Hawke, snarling. “I swear, if you and Varric are in this together— if this is some kind of _joke_ —”

“I swear by everything, anything— it’s not, I swear!” Hawke pleads. “I have been absolutely infatuated with you from the moment I met you! I don’t even, I can’t— I _swear_ , I can’t even possibly imagine what you might see in me, but I adore you.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows rise, twin stormclouds of shock and wonder. “How can I not be enthralled? You are a woman, a Champion, a _legend_.”

“Woman, refugee, tawdry novelization,” Hawke replies. She adds a snort, as much like Cassandra’s as she can make it. Break her down to parts and the whole becomes _less_ , like a flower dissected to tawdry pistil and stamen. “But you? You are everything my mother would have wanted.”

“Oh?” Cassandra asks, brow knit in inquiry.

Hawke tongues the side of her cheek, feels out her words like an old bruise. “Mother had been having these dinners, trying to make me meet eligible young noblemen. But when she found out how I felt about women— she got really quiet and asked if I liked girls _and_ boys, or just girls. When I said both, she started inviting eligible young noblewomen too.” She laughs, quiet enough to hear the fractures. “She tried. Really did.” Coughs, reels herself back to the present, the past ever-plucking at her sleeves, rogue seeds trying to blossom in the cracks. “What I mean is— she would have loved you. Dashing, noble, _serious_. Knight in shining armor. And a princess to boot.”

“‘Princess’ is a title,” Cassandra points out. “Royal blood alone does not grant it.”

“You’re still… what, seventy-eighth in line for the Nevarran throne? Closer than anyone else I’ve known.” Softly, daringly, Hawke reaches for Cassandra’s hair, tucks a stray tendril back into the braid. “My mother turned her back on that life, once. Not royalty, but more wealth and privilege than I truly understood. I think the love was enough for her. It wasn’t until Father left and everything turned topsy-turvy with the Blight that it just… wasn’t. I never really understood until we went to Kirkwall.”

“Are you saying I remind you of your mother?” Cassandra asks. She tilts her head, laughs somewhere between a smile and a scowl, and reaches up to cup Hawke’s hand. Squeezes.

“I’m saying that you have deep roots, and I am just a dandelion in the breeze.”

“You are the very bloom of my life,” Cassandra says, and Hawke’s toes curl at the way she says it, the utter conviction. It’s a belief that cuts, true as any steel, and Hawke falls forward to shower her in kisses.


End file.
